


For I Am Love Sick

by Arlome



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Eden - Freeform, F/M, Figs, Judea, Memories, Obscure mentions of Eve, Shir HaShirim | Song of Songs, scent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-07
Packaged: 2020-08-11 16:30:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20156620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: Figs.That’s the first thing his brain registers when he opens the door to the Detective’s house. Figs, and memories.





	For I Am Love Sick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [swankkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/swankkat/gifts).

> For darling Kat. I hope you like it:)
> 
> My eternal thanks to the amazing [ObliObla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla) for the beta!
> 
> The credit for the Title and all of Lucifer's quotes goes to King Solomon.

Figs.

That’s the first thing his brain registers when he opens the door to the Detective’s house. Figs, and memories.

The sweet, pungent smell of centuries past hits him hard in the gut, tearing his diaphragm, invading his lungs. It stands heavy and ripe, engulfing the house in the heady aroma of the Desert and of fertile hills; of vineyards and wool, of earth and olive oil.

He thinks of Eden, of large leaves that cover dark curls over forbidden desire; thinks of cascading brown hair, streaming as a flock of goats from Mount Gilead. Thinks of wide spread thighs and sweetest lips; thinks of sin and all its virtues.

And then, of later – of balsam oil, and musty parchment. Of ink and darkened rooms lit solely by an oil lamp; thinks of the sighs, and broken cries, and freshly cut figs in earthen bowls.

The scent is strong and spicy, and he inhales greedily, like a starving man; like a prisoner who has but one meal left before the gallows. And he recalls how sweet they used to taste against his ravenous lips, how ripe and seedy, how delicious; the luscious juices running down his stubbled chin.

The Tempter looks around for the source of that nostalgic smell – of that spark in history that he holds dear to his rotten heart – and lets his nose guide him.

He finds her in the kitchen, over a dish of Mission figs, cutting them into wedges, and throwing them into a glass bowl that already seems full of cheese cubes and sliced grapes. She turns at the sound of his approaching feet and smiles brightly as she sees him, her fingers sweeter than the fruit.

“Hi, babe!” she greets him enthusiastically, putting down the knife and gesturing over to the plump, purple-black figs, “look what I found at the farmers market!”

He can’t help himself, really, and, perhaps, he doesn’t even want to; a touch, a pull – and her fingers in his mouth, on his tongue – sweet, so sweet, and sweeter still. Her eyes widen and blood rises in her cheeks; her breath catches somewhere in between her ribs and gets trapped in her belly. She stares at him in understanding, and desire, and softness in her heart that he does not deserve.

“Is it the smell?” she asks, her voice raw and raspy, full of colour and emotion.

He nods, and sucks her fingers further into his mouth, selfishly licking the sweet juices away.

She barely breathes, just shallow puffs of air that leave her chest in quick succession, and when he drops her fingers from his lips, she brings a slice of fig to them, instead; as an offering, as sacrifice – memories and taste to pacify the Devil.

In the end, she pounces first, upsetting the dish with the figs in her haste. And down they fall and clatter and scatter and stain the floor with their pungent juices and breaking skins.

She pulls him to her by his jacket and cries into his mouth when he hoists her up onto the counter and pulls down her stretchy shorts; then, besotted and willing, he drops to his worshipping knees before her parted thighs. And she keens, and mewls and sighs, and comes undone against his tongue, and tastes of figs and all that is divine.

“Behold, you are fair, my beloved,” he quotes into her thighs, before he rises to his feet, “Your lips are like a scarlet thread, your breasts are like two fauns.”

And when his lips touch hers in fire, and there is naught but raw desire, he whispers at her mouth, “Honey and milk under your tongue,” and kisses her in want.

“Shut up,” she cries, her eyes wild, and clear and bright as all the galaxies, as all creation, “shut up, and-and – “

“And what?” he asks, and his smile still speaks of figs and slick lust, his lips wet with sin and fruit, “Open for me, my beloved, my dove, my – “

“_Lucifer_!” she begs and tugs at his trousers with urgency, and – at last – satisfied, he obliges, and sinks into her with fervor and ardour and unyielding devotion in his ancient bones.

“I am my beloved’s,” he moans into her ear, and she tightens and cries and pushes her fingers into the fabric of his jacket, her thighs pressed firmly against his shifting hips, “and my beloved is mine, who grazes among the roses.”

She comes apart, hard and fast, her skin moist and hot and shining. He follows suit and stutters in her ear, and spends himself within her, with reverence befitting a worshipping saint.

She laughs and laughs, and sighs, and pushes at his shoulders to look into his eyes.

“Well, that was hot,” she admits, cheeks burning crimson, eyes still clouded with yearning for him, “did-did you just quote Song of Songs to me while we fucked on my kitchen counter?”

He winks at her, smile all teeth, lips all sin.

“My, my, Detective!” He crows, fixing his trousers and adjusting his jacket, “somebody here knows her erotic biblical poetry!”

She blushes again, hits him playfully on the arm, and pinches one of his cheeks in mischievous delight.

“Shut up,” she says again, goodnaturedly, and tugs at his lapels to bring him closer again. “You owe me a basket of figs, you know that, right?” 

“Darling, for this performance?” he mutters, eyes darkening with renewed need. “I will buy you a whole bloody crate!”

She laughs and laughs, and sighs, and pulls him back between her thighs. And bites her lips, and licks her teeth and leans to whisper in his ear –

“Deal.”


End file.
